The Christmas Candle in the Window
The first acquaintance I made with my new neighborhood was in the dark. Heidi had quit in the fall and they were putting me on more and more of her opening shifts until I moved, and, like a switch had clicked, my schedule was all openings. This meant I had to be at work at 6am. The uncertain timing of my new walk meant I wanted to give myself leeway; I'd leave at 5:30 and, hustling, would make it around 5:47.
It grew to be my least favorite part of my day. Bundling up in my extra pair of black knit over-the-knee socks, my scarf, mask, gloves, and coat--this was early February and freezing, and when I chose to pack on an additional thick sweater to keep warm, it made it hard to move or breathe properly. My mask over my nose and mouth and my scarf wrapped over my mask didn't help my breathing, either. Neither did the hill I had to climb behind my house to get up to Lafayette Street. I'd be hurrying in the hopes I'd generate body heat and get to work faster so this whole thing would be over with sooner. I'd end up gasping at the top of the hill, unable to take in air fast enough. And it was always hard trying to balance whether I'd style my bangs, or ruin my hair with a hat if it was really cold.
On my walks, I'd often daydream about things I'd rather be doing inspired by things I walked past. Things like this: I'd step out a side door of a house, down three concrete steps to the driveway where a black car was waiting, exhaust pipe clouding the air. The biting cold would hurt for only a moment before I opened the back door and slid into a warm, clean interior in my pajamas and a blanket. There'd be a cooler in the backseat filled with juice and soda, granola bars and snacks, and there'd be quiet 90's synthy music on the radio. I'd curl up as the car thunked into drive and lay my head down to snuggle in for a long ride to Vermont. Presumably for a weeklong writing and yoga retreat. Or: I was on a couch in an upstairs room, lit golden by a lamp beside a TV that played old episodes of Gumby. I'd be eating a bowl of sugary cereal and Paige would wander sleepily in, helping herself to a bowl of cereal, too. Neither of us with places to be or schedules to keep for at least a week.
I wanted to write this down for the first time: the reason I latched onto this practice was because when I was living at Hygge, and doing early, early openings the days before Christmas, I had an experience I've been thinking about ever since. I would walk the empty, cold streets at 2am. The streets I was so familiar with. The streets that were a side-street off of a side-street, and filled only with historic, quiet houses of well-off, friendly neighbors. And I was surprised by how many peoples' Christmas lights were still on at that hour! It was like a private viewing, all for me as I clipped down the center of the asphalt in my heeled boots. There was the house on the corner with a lit star complete with a long, draping tail. There was the house at the end of my street, facing me like a welcome, with five windows, each lit with a candle and miniature trees.
But when I turned right, and crossed the tiny intersection, there was the unassuming Victorian squeezed into a shadow behind the witch shop. It was very vertical, maybe even taller than our house (the front door had a large glass window that showed only a flight of wooden stairs, adding to the impression that this house was upright-inclined). And in a top-floor, semicircle window, amongst the gables, was an electric candle. I would stop to gaze at this candle when I passed. The image has come back to me at the randomest moments. In the shower at Hygge, during the workday, even here after moving. There was something so beautifully comforting about imagining a person up there, tucked up into the eaves, nice and warm despite the frigid dark outside. I could smell the oil heat, hear its whoosh, I could picture their small bed lit only by that electric candle's glow, and envision what it was like to sleep soundly as Christmas drew its magic closer around us.
There's an awful lot that I wanted this Christmas/this winter that I didn't get. There were the snow days that didn't snow, the mornings I didn't get the privilege of seeing the sun, the holiday lead-up where I had to spend my energy and time serving others, the comfort of a familiar, warm bed, and most of all, the time to rest. I think that might be one of the reasons I keep bumping into this window memory: it seems like an encapsulation of an experience I was resolutely locked out of, three stories away on the cement below.